


Sherlock's Wrist

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cigarettes, Dr. Watson's connections, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, For Science John, For Science!, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Professionals, Mycroft is absent but probably watching on CCTV, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock glares at many things in this story, Sherlock's Hair, St. Bart's, mycobacterium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This short fic explores the relationship of John and Sherlock when faced with a bit of a medical concern. John has always been there when Sherlock needed him, and this is no exception when Sherlock's cough turns into a bit more than anyone was expecting.  John rises admirably to the occasion, because that's what John Watson is about.</p><p>If hinting at a difficult diagnosis might be upsetting to you, please proceed with caution.  But do check out the tags, Angst with a happy ending!</p><p>  * * * *</p><p>"<i>John.</i>"  If John hadn't been afraid before, the snarl in Sherlock's tone strikes terror to his very soul.  "I swear on all that is holy," Sherlock hisses, the clench of his teeth and set of his jaw a palpable element, "if you treat me any differently, <i>I swear I will hurt you.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Wrist

John snagged out an arm, drawing it around the warm, lanky body of his flatmate, who, still mostly asleep, snuggled backwards, up against his warm chest. Sherlock’s back was also warm, lithe, and solid. John had ventured to bed alone, not an uncommon event, while Sherlock researched who-knew-what at all hours, as the mood struck. The thin tee shirt under John’s hand was soft and inviting, and his hand skated up, feeling the faintest vibrato of respiration, of firm pectoral muscle, of pulsatile precordium. His hand slid toward the mattress, fingers sliding into spaces between ribs, feeling left ventricular apex pulsating faintly under his touch. Resting heart rate about 70, John calculated, realising that the other man was quite awake.

Sherlock wriggled his bum back against John, muttered, “Morning,” his voice raspy and sexy as hell. There was some shifting of legs as various body parts also vied for attention. John’s hand snuck into an elastic waistband, intending to offer a tactile _hello and good morning_. Sherlock took a deep breath, then quickly leaned up on an elbow, a harsh cough in the making. The muscles of his back tensed, the effort drawing a long body into a bent position. John’s hand moved away allowing Sherlock to sit up.

He’d had a bit of a head cold, run of the mill congestion, the cough lingering a few days in expected viral progression. And of course, it was more pronounced in the morning, but it hadn’t previously driven him from the warmth of John’s arms to seek relief being upright. Wordless and a bit breathless, he grabbed his dressing gown, left the bedroom in search of privacy. John could hear the deep hack, phlegm moving, and then water running in the kitchen.

Later that morning, John retrieved his stethoscope, placed it against a protesting Sherlock's chest wall. There was a bit of a raspy wheeze in the right middle lobe, indicating perhaps a narrowing of the smaller airways.

The cough continued, and a few days later, Sherlock coughed up a bit of rusty phlegm. John had been ready to leave for his shift at the surgery.

“That’s enough. Chest x ray. Tomorrow. I’ll bring home a req.” John issued the order, and as promised, he brought home a radiology slip, handed it over. “Go over to St. Barts. It's walk-in registration.”

“You're not coming along?” Sherlock barely glanced at the box checked 2 View PA/LAT r/o PNA on the form.

“I’m sure it’s fine. Just go get it done.” He shrugged. “I’m working tomorrow. I’ll be in the surgery just a couple blocks away.” John considered his non-response, wondering if he was nervous. “I’m sure it’s fine. Do you _want_ me to come along?”

His pale eyes narrowed, taking in what John wasn’t saying more than what he was. “No, it’s fine.”

“Fine.” Later that night, when the coughing sounds from the sitting room returned, John swallowed hard from where he lay in the bed, alone, thinking that just perhaps things were not at all fine.

++

The text came through at the end of John’s shift at the surgery.

“ **So when they repeat a view and ask me to wait, is that a bit not good?”-SH**

John packed up and wandered over to the hospital, entered the radiology department, his heart pounding. He hoped he managed to appear casual on the outside, because his mind was racing. He found Sherlock in the radiology waiting room, aggravatedly typing into his mobile.

“The internet connection here is abysmal.” He raised his head, looked John in the eye. “They took another two views, told me to wait. _Tedious._ ”

John’s mobile buzzed, just that moment. The caller ID came from the generic number of the building in which he was standing. He tilted the screen to show Sherlock as he answered it, brought it to his ear.

++

Another few minutes elapsed, and there were four men staring at several views of Sherlock’s lungs. One of the radiologists pointed to a spot in the right middle lobe. “There’s the nodule. Moderate sized, about 10-11 mm.” He pointed to the other view, the lateral oblique. “It’s definitely within the central lung tissue, but hard to tell if it's solid or subsolid. Are you a smoker?” He glanced from John to Sherlock, saw the slight, apologetic nod. “I mean, biopsy is the only way to confirm. But position? I think it definitely needs a closer look to rule out cancer.”

And there it was, the C word that John had forbidden to occupy his thoughts. He felt Sherlock lean ever so slightly in his direction, their elbows touching.

The other radiologist, the one John had spoken to, is quieter, studying the image. “CAT scan will show delineation, and we need to confirm single pulmonary nodule. This is a little hazy here,” he stated, gesturing, “there could be more. Better definition will help. Maybe get on the schedule for a biopsy.” He pulled off his glasses, turned to Sherlock. “We don’t usually have these consults with the patient in the room. Are you coughing up blood?”

Sherlock was silent, and John waited, then finally prompted, “ _Sherlock._ ”

“A few times. Rusty.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, contrite acknowledgement of John’s questioning gaze.

There was little response to that other than the radiologist pursing his lips a bit. The silence was irritating, as if the responses are all bad and are withheld.

John had suspected more instances of hemoptysis than the one for which he’d been present. Sherlock had, a few times now, closed the bathroom door and John could still hearing phlegm production through the wooden barrier and over the sound of running water, evidence of bloody sputum probably disappearing into the plumbing.

“I would recommend you follow up without delay. If nothing else, for peace of mind. But, with your smoking history, Mr. Holmes, and at your young age, if there's treatment to start, it is best to begin quickly. Better the devil you know.”

John was quiet, too, as he followed Sherlock out of the suite. John filled out a CAT scan order form, and they stopped at central registration to schedule it. The receptionist gestured to a chair until it was their turn. John reached into a pocket for something he’d grabbed from the office, held it out to an introspective Sherlock, a nicotine patch.

His eyes flicked to John’s, and his brow furrowed slightly. “I thought you said I couldn’t wear two,” he said, slightly conspiratorily, raising a sleeve to show the one he’d put on that morning. “Thanks, though.” The patch changed hands, went into Sherlock’s pocket.

“Good idea, then.”

Initially, the schedule was full, but John managed to pull a few connections to get added the following morning. Sherlock acted like he didn’t particularly care. John’s work bag was slung casually over his shoulder, and they strolled home, each awash in a sea of disturbing thoughts that roiled like ocean waves.

They were nearing Baker Street when Sherlock finally cleared his throat. “I always thought it would be a case that did me in.” John looked at him quickly, and he continued, somber. “You know, a perpetrator who doesn’t appreciate being caught.”

There are no instructions for responding to a man like Sherlock Holmes when he confessed to his own mortality. John hastily weighed his options. “I thought perhaps it might be Donovan,” he said, carefully poking a bit at him. Sherlock barely smirked in response. He took a deep breath, and went into doctor mode. “Look, there’s not enough information yet, so don't get too far ahead. It’s one day at a time, here. We get more information tomorrow. If there’s to be a biopsy, we deal with that. And it’s still a few days until there are results.” They arrived at their door, and John unlocked it, opened it, and waited for Sherlock to enter. Once inside, he touched Sherlock’s arm and lingered there, fingers clutching firmly, until he looked at him. “And you are not alone, here. We’ve got this, together, all right? I’m not going anywhere.”

His head nodded but his eyes were uncertain and troubled.

Later that night, Sherlock appeared in the living room with two partial packs of cigarettes in his hand, while John watched quietly from the couch, pretending to read the latest medical journal that came in the post. He took one out, lit it, inhaled. “What the hell are you about?” John asked quietly.

“My last one ever.” He crossed to the window, opened it, stared out across the busy London street below, knowing John was going to fuss anyway about smoking indoors. He only had a few drags, tamped it out in the souvenir ash tray from their sheeted shenanigans at Buckingham Palace. The two packs left in his hand, he crumpled them up, binning them.

“Done, then?” John intentionally kept his tone casual and light.

“I think it wise, don’t you?”

“Didn’t look like you enjoyed that last one too much anyway. Did you get the pack out of the upstairs bedroom nightstand?” John watched the briefest purse of the lip occur, and pressed on. “And I didn’t hear you get the one over the microwave, either.”

“You’re such a pain in the arse. _Piss off_.” John looked over, saw the outright feisty aggravation in Sherlock’s entire demeanor, chuckled despite himself. The tension in the room abruptly lowered a bit.

“I know you didn’t forget about them, your brain is just on overdrive. Look, if you are going to be a bit distracted, at least let it be over something worthwhile.” There was a slightly amused expression on Sherlock’s face as he looked over to see John, also amused, rising off the chair. John was already unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, then went to his collar and started working his way down. They came together, meeting in the center of the room.

Arms entwined, their heads meeting while lips touched, mingled, tongues reaching out, aggressively seeking. John’s hands came to Sherlock’s dress shirt, opening quickly and then progressing to belt, zipper. Sherlock’s hand came to John’s then, stilled them. “I don’t want to do this here.”

“Fine.” John turned him then to face the hallway, a gentle hand pressing him in the direction of the bedroom, and he followed.

Clothing eventually was removed, John’s in a heap wherever it landed, and Sherlock’s folded neatly across the chair at the foot of the bed. And before long, there was a sheen of sweat across them both, while John moved above, gently stroking and entering carefully. Sherlock, finally, had enough, and grouched at John. “I’m not fucking breakable, you know. Get on with it.” John could be obliging when it suited him, and few hard thrusts had Sherlock’s head tapping on the headboard before he reached up a hand to prevent traumatic brain injury.

He leaned into John, pressing lips then teeth against the shoulder scar. “Much better.”

++

John had rescheduled his hours in order to accompany Sherlock to hospital the next day. When they registered, a name band was offered to the patient, of course, who seethed a bit at it but proffered his wrist and watched it being applied. They had arrived perfectly on time but waited, in the opinion of the wrist-banded slightly anxious patient, an eternity of about an hour for the CAT scan table to clear.

“Are you going to muscle your way into the control room and watch?”

“I’m not muscling anywhere. It’s a quick way to really piss off everyone by doing that. That’s your style, not mine.” John reached out, took his hand, touched the bracelet, wondering why it bothered him. “Do you want me to? Watch, I mean.”

“I can at least _read_ you. Being able to discern how bad it is by the look on your face will be preferable to hearing it from a stranger.”

“You know I don’t interpret these.”

“Bollocks. Nice try. Perhaps not like a radiologist, but you can tell.”

“Long as it’s okay with you, I will ask.”

“Fine, you ask them. I will tell them. It’s my nodule, and if I want you to see it first, that’s my prerogative.” Sherlock’s version, John realized, of _it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to._

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

Finally, Sherlock’s name was called, and he and John left one waiting room to be shown another. A patient gown was handed to Sherlock, who deemed it hideous (which it was) but he put it on anyway, wrapped a blanket around himself and they waited on hard plastic chairs in a room with little else to offer. John touched the wristband again, and asked, “How come you hate this so much?”

“How can anyone _not_ hate it and everything it represents?” He managed to keep his voice quiet, but there was passion in the statement. “It’s vulnerability and loss of control and a real possibility of a rather bad outcome. _I hate it._ ” The last sentence was dripping with vitriol, and John wasn’t quite sure of an appropriate response, so he kept silent.

The door across from them opened, and they both rose. It was the radiologist himself, and he beckoned them inside. The CAT scanner was ominous looking, a table with straps and trolleys, the machine itself a gaping hole. The radiologist patted the table, and Sherlock hedged again, reluctantly, just a bit. John felt a stab of sympathetic, visceral pain on his behalf, stifled it.

“Up you go,” John encouraged, quietly, then turned to the radiologist, “Mind if I watch?”

“I figured you might want to. Fine by you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was already laying down, and the tech was helping him slide his head into the padded support for that purpose. “If he insists, fine with me.” The tech helped to position and support his arms extended over his head and out of the way. The blanket was thrown over him, the door closed, and the machine whirred into life.

++

John watched the images on the screen of the control room, feeling oddly detached as he kept an eye on the patient advancing and retreating into the scanner through the observation window. Sherlock laid completely still, breathing and holding his breath to the voice prompts, and the test was completed in minutes. The tech helped Sherlock up and pointed him back to the dressing room. Before long, there was yet another cluster around a large computer monitor with the radiologist, patient, and John. The nodule appeared to be solid, which was good, less likely cancerous, the radiologist told them, unnecessarily outlining the clearly visible spot. John thought, silently, that the nodule was scarier on the clear CAT scan images, more threatening, more concrete.

The images are carefully viewed from apices to bases, scrutinized by skilled eyes in the silent room.

Finally, he said, “That’s all I see, it’s otherwise clear. That nodule is good sized, though --”

John takes affront to the word good, _nothing is good_ about this finding.

“-- and should, in all likelihood, be biopsied.” The radiologist asked if they had additional questions, and made as if to leave the room.

“Okay if we use the room a few minutes?” John asked, and received a cursory shrug and nod. When they were alone, he turned to Sherlock, who was watching him with questioning eyes. “Look, I may have overstepped, but I made contact with Dr. O’Brien, really the best guy in pulmonary med here. He thinks he can see you this morning, between cases, for a quick consult. Are you okay with that?”

“His biopsy-related mortality rate is low, then?”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

“So I shouldn’t ask him that?” He sighed, running fingers back through his chestnut locks. John noticed that both wrists were bare. “Of course it’s fine. Why would I say no?”

“Because you like to be in control.” Their eyes met and held.

“I do.” Sherlock tested out the sensation of deferring this medical realm to John and forged ahead. “But in this case, it makes sense to listen to you. Not really my area here.”

Dr. O’Brien arrived shortly after John texted him their location and that the CAT scan images were available. He arrived in a charismatic torrent of energy, and a personable discussion ensued. He quickly assessed the images, and proceeded to explain to them both, the latest technology that was _by far_ safer than previous biopsy procedures. His conversation was quite professional, mentioning the possibilities of cancer, a benign process, or infection. He explained that a bronchoscope with ultrasound would be used, passed into the lung, then the needle biopsy would be performed, precisely guided to the exact location of the lesion. He explained that, in his opinion, it should be a rather simple procedure and give them accurate results for the most appropriate treatment plan.

What John appreciated most about him is that he spoke primarily to Sherlock, including John to a lesser degree. He gathered a targeted history, described the procedure, and then handed him an envelope of forms that were necessary to get the process underway. He exuded confidence, and John, having researched extensively already, knew that it was well deserved. He assessed Sherlock from all appropriate angles, from airway structures to neck flexibility, then auscultated his lungs and heart, examined his throat.

The deep breathing that Dr. O’Brien requested of him triggered another coughing bout - harsh, deep, and raspy. The awkwardness of the moment was not lost on John, who knew Sherlock usually retreated somewhere private and hated the betrayal of his body in this manner. Dr. O’Brien was quiet, watching the process carefully. He met John’s eyes, conveying a modicum of concern. The coughing fit only lasted a few minutes and finally eased spontaneously.

“So,” he concluded, “call my office, they know you’re a priority schedule, and we should be able to get this done next week. But get those forms in first, or they probably won’t even talk to you. Pre-procedural bloodwork is required, too.”

He stood, answered a few housekeeping questions from Sherlock (intelligent ones like the timing of pathology results and the likelihood of this nodule being cancerous, which, John was relieved, Dr. O’Brien didn’t actually answer), and then left the small room.

When they were alone again, Sherlock was quiet. John flipped the large computer monitor toward himself, closed the applications. “You ready to go?”

“God, yes.” Sherlock opened the packet of papers, glared at them, rolling his eyes as he deemed them a tremendous waste of time. He handed them to John, who, also not a fan of paperwork, sighed. They crossed out of the waiting room and toward the main hallway.

“You know my handwriting’s mostly illegible. These are for _you_ to fill out.”

“So you’re saying the choice between illegible and blank is...”

“Do you have to be so bloody difficult?” John gritted his teeth, just a bit. “I’m scheduled at the surgery. Fill out the damn forms, drop them off on your way home. Call the office later, get scheduled for _this_.” John flipped to the patient information brochure of that title, showed him. When Sherlock narrowed his eyes, John continued, “Endobronchial ultrasound-guided transbronchial needle aspiration. An EBUS-TBNA, with Dr. O’Brien.”

“God, you’re sexy when you speak in medical abbreviations.”

"Well, okay, then stop being such a _royal PIA_."

Sherlock snatched the papers back from John and held out a hand, presumably for a pen. There was a bit of a stand-off, and when John didn’t move quickly enough to please the other, Sherlock reached out, captured the pen barely visible from John's shirt pocket.

“So will it hurt?” Sherlock paused long enough to ask the question with just a hint of apprehension, and folded his long body into a chair, pen drawn, to take care of business.

John ruffled the dark locks fondly. “No.” Sherlock seemed a bit less irritated. “But you should follow directions, or your bigger threat is going to be _me_.”

++

That night John caught him in front of the mirror in the loo, both hands smoothing hair product from crown to nape as he maintained the careful unruliness of the lush curls. There are myriad, sad emotions in the pale blue eyes, John noticed, and their eyes met and lingered in the mirror. John tried hard not to look at the curls, afraid the grief he could see in Sherlock's expression might be reflected in his own if he did.

“John.” He wiped his hands on a towel, gathering his thoughts. “What if...?”

And John’s heart broke just a little bit when he realized that Sherlock can’t even finish the sentence. He lifted a hand, touched the wild mane of hair, a curl wrapping around his fingers. “... you lose your hair?” he finished, trying to be gentle. _Might as well put words to the pain_ , he thinks. Their gaze broke as Sherlock looked down, nodding. “Well, before you pull the pin out of the grenade, first of all, remember what I said: one day at a time. It might not _ever_ be a consideration.” There was another shrugging nod of agreement. “And not every treatment causes hair loss. And you know what, it grows back.”

He took Sherlock's hand, brought it up alongside his face, his nose and mouth pressing along Sherlock's long, naked wrist. He inhaled deeply of the combination of scents that embody the man beside him - sandalwood, fresh air, hint of coconut, and the unique pheromone that stirred the center of John's chest. "Come to bed?" John said, flicking the light off behind them and leading a very willing partner across the hall.

Clothing discarded, John ended up on his back, with an equally naked, intense, almost desperate detective above him. There was almost a fierceness to Sherlock that John knew could be a very normal reaction to the uncertainty of his situation. Their gaze locked, mouths crushing together as if the raging emotion and sensation can assure them of anything, and John moaned deep in his throat, his hands threading roughly into Sherlock's curls. If he'd done it this once, he'd done it hundreds of times before. They both love it, the giving, the tension, the forced immobility.

This time, however, John stilled. Their recent conversation has struck just a little bit of fear in the pit of his stomach, and his hands relax, sliding slowly to Sherlock's shoulders instead.

" _John._ " If John hadn't been afraid before, the snarl in Sherlock's tone proceeded to strike terror to his very soul. "I swear on all that is holy," Sherlock hissed, the clench of his teeth and set of his jaw a palpable element, "if you treat me any differently, _I swear I will hurt you._ "

In reply, John's hands crept back upward, he scissored his legs, rolled them both 180 degrees, and willingly demonstrated the tender fierceness of Dr. John Watson.

++

Time passed until the EBUS procedure finally approached. The scheduling department called, as promised, to confirm a time for Sherlock’s biopsy the next day. Sherlock listened, then put his hand over the receiver, said to John, “There are 7 patients, they are calling us first, which slot do we want?”

“Second.” John didn’t even hesitate, and was impressed that Dr. O'Brien had indeed given them scheduling priority. Sherlock made arrangements, listened to some instructions, apparently, and hung up.

“Why second?”

“First one is a warm up. Second is best for staff, anesthesia, doc, the whole environment.”

They arrive early at the bronch lab, to register. The clerk held out a name bracelet again for Sherlock, who hesitated. John slipped a hand into Sherlock’s, the one at his side, twining his own warm fingers around Sherlock’s cool ones.

The morning flowed extremely quickly, fluidly, with minimal fuss as they were herded by a nurse from waiting room to holding area. John made a bit of an attempt to fade into the background but Sherlock was having none of that, speaking and glaring and huffing. There was banter between all three of them, no acknowledgement of the potential gravity of the situation. Instead, discussion about underwear, the hideous patient gown fabric, the need to continue breathing, and John eventually asked the nurse for the IV basket, which she brought with a questioning look until John smiled, nodded. He snapped on gloves, and, without even an acknowledgement or obtaining permission, put a tourniquet around his partner’s arm and prepared to start Sherlock’s IV.

Sherlock, a bit taken aback, commented, “If you miss this, I will make sure you regret it. I could probably start my own,” and he continued into an arrogant assessment of his exemplary venipuncture skills. John can feel Sherlock's glare and tried not to laugh as he threatens his very person in his sleep. The nurse raised an eyebrow, amused at their entertaining banter, particularly Sherlock's, who was in rare form.

In the military, John started IVs in soldiers with no blood pressure and likely very little circulating blood volume. But even as he cannulated the vein, with immediate flashback of blood in the hub, he sucked in a breath through his teeth, apologising profusely as if he had missed it. “Ooh, so sorry, mate, that’s going to leave a terrible bruise, I’m sure it won’t take me but another four or five tries to get a decent vein,” he continued, releasing the tourniquet and threading the tubing on and slapping a clear dressing over it all. Sherlock's eyes had quickly lowered to the site, realised he'd been played, just a bit.

“You’re a cretin, you know,” Sherlock said, his voice tight.

The nurse picked up a surgical head-covering and held it out to Sherlock, who glared at it. John raised an eyebrow at him until he reached for it, pulled it on. The patient has a few more random jibes about the pervasive humiliation factor in hospitals. Everything fell together so quickly, that they barely had a poignant moment to hug and say “see you later”, Sherlock was wheeled back into the procedure room, greeted by anesthesia, and the door closed. John was stunned for a few quick moments, alone in the sudden, abrupt dead silence of the room.

Before too long, Sherlock was back, eyes closed, IV site out already, breathing easily. His pulse oximetry readings were normal, and his chest expansion even and non-labored. John could feel his tension abate as Sherlock, even sedated and sleepy, reached for his hand, squeezed tight. Another few minutes, and Sherlock was brightly awake and itchy to get dressed. When John wasn’t watching him, he removed the gauze from the IV site, entirely too soon in John’s opinion, and then he figured it would serve him right to bleed all over his expensive clothing.

John was glad the pulmonologist had warned them they would be called back into the depths of the office for preliminary test results. He steeled himself each time the door opened and someone emerged, or a receptionist beckoned another name. It all felt ominous. Finally one of the office staff opened the door, stated, “Holmes?” and Sherlock stood up, hesitated long enough to ensure John was following, and they stepped through the portal.

++

“Single pulmonary nodule. Frozen section benign. Almost certainly infectious, histoplasmosis or mycobacterium, we will have results in about 72 hours. Not cancer.” And the doctor had paused, then, searching Sherlock’s face and then flicking his gaze to John. “Have you had any environmental exposure to bacterial or viral contaminants?”

To both of their credits, neither snorted in laughter. The pulmonologist looked at John, who gestured to Sherlock. “Perhaps,” was all he answered. John steeled his expression, thinking of the mould cultures in the kitchen, the deliveries of various infectious substances for experimentation that fermented, brewed, or bubbled on the worktops. He knew he would have to have the discussion _once again_ about the mandatory use of particulate respirator masks when plating and transferring organisms.

“Well, anyway. Not lung cancer. You should quit smoking immediately and forever. There was no bleeding, no complications, chest film showed no pneumothorax post procedure. You might cough up a bit of blood today or tomorrow. Call us for clots or anything greater than 30 milliliters...” and he continued with post-procedure instructions.

Finally, he asked if there were additional questions, then stood up, shook John’s hand, clasped Sherlock’s upper arm in farewell. The last thing he did before leaving the room was to reach into his pocket and pull out a small, double-walled biohazard bag. He handed it out to Sherlock, carefully avoiding John’s knowing gaze. “I heard you might have some interest in this?”

Sherlock reached a hand out, tentatively, inquisitive, as John knew he would be. “Perhaps,” he said, lip twitching and his eyes cutting briefly in John's direction.

“After confirming that the biopsy sample was sufficient, we obtained... well, a bit more.” Dr. O’Brien actually looked a bit mischievous. “And, Mr. Holmes, _this_ ”, he gestured to the bag and at the three of them in the room, “never occurred.”

“Of course.” Sherlock wriggled the bag contents to note the presence of aerobic and anaerobic culture media along with several microbiology smears on slides labeled with date and initials, SH. The physician left the room, door remaining open, while Sherlock pocketed the sample.

John watched Sherlock’s face, opposite him, which gave away very little except for the clench of his jaw. There was the very slightest tremor of his lower lip and what John could only imagine was the Sherlockian equivalent of emotional overload.

John closed the door behind him, then, and Sherlock’s brow creased, puzzled. “Don’t you want to leave?”

They were both standing. “Not yet.” John took Sherlock’s arms with firm, steady hands, drew him close, his own arms pulling chest lightly against his own. He waited until he felt a few breaths - inhale, exhale. There was the faintest quaver of shoulders beneath his embrace, just once, and he felt a deliberate, almost exaggerated swallow before Sherlock relaxed just slightly against him. His hands stole into dark curls, slightly mussed from the days events, pulling their heads back just slightly until there was enough space between them. Lips, warm, solid, soft came together in relief, a promise, a celebration. “Congratulations. You ok?”

A brief smile was bestowed as blue eyes stared back at him. “I am. And very ready to leave.” He seemed steadier, more centered, met John’s eyes appreciatively, said softly, “Thanks. And I don’t mean just for the samples. Although that was _bloody brilliant._ ”

The news finally settled in, and the vice that John hadn’t exactly been aware of that was restricting his breathing and tensing in his chest, released. Exhaling finally felt complete.

They shrugged the rest of the way into jackets, left the consultation room, and approached the hospital exit. John watched as Sherlock surreptitiously slid a finger under the wrist band, found it unbreakable, twisting hard enough to turn his index finger purple.

Smiling to himself, John withdrew from his pocket a pair of scissors, brought along for this very purpose. They stopped to one side of the doors, and Sherlock gratefully held out his wrist. John snipped the band, re-pocketed the scissors, held the severed name band out. Sherlock wrapped long fingers around it, stepping toward the door. He dropped it casually, off-handedly, into the bin as they broached the door and encountered fresh air yet again. He took a deep breath, feeling just the barest twinge of throat discomfort and a fullness deep in the right center of his chest. And it was good. Their hands met, linked, and they began the slow, relaxed walk toward home.

++

Epilogue:

“John?”

Sherlock was seated at the table studying an assortment of slides at the microscope while John was watching reruns of Britain’s Got Talent.

At the rumble of acknowledgement in John’s throat, Sherlock continued. “You’re generally supportive of the advancement of scientific knowledge, right?”

At that, John looked over, made eye contact and tried to determine if he was already in danger or about to find himself in jeopardy. Many a horrific confrontation had started off with a question just like that. “Explain.”

“Well, this rifampin that I’m taking for three months, did you know it turns urine and tears and sometimes sweat orange color?”

John hesitated. “You do remember from time to time that I went to med school?” Sherlock made a dismissive movement with long fingers. “Yes of course.”

“I was wondering about requesting the honor of your presence to determine if other body fluids might also be turned orange?”

John sighed as if yet another hardship had been thrust upon him. “For science, then.”

++

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoy kudos or comments. <3
> 
> And trust John to use the words hardship and thrust in the last line of the story. Such a clever man (I swear some of his lines write themselves).
> 
> The chest x-ray is ordered as two views, one front to back or PA and the lateral view or LAT, to rule out pneumonia, in case the abbreviations are unclear.
> 
> EBUS-TBNA is a well-established, safe procedure for many patients, and is typically performed in an outpatient setting. It is best suited, as was the case here, for nodules, lesions, or tumors located within central lung tissues. Rifampin is a medication given to treat mycobacterium infection; mycobacterium is the bacteria responsible for tuberculosis. Perhaps it is best to leave the study of said bacteria to trained professionals in a legitimate lab, yes?


End file.
